


Not a Fetish

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Animal Ears, Animal Traits, Foxes, Hybrids, M/M, Silver Fox, Silver Fox Greg Lestrade, Slice of Life, Tails
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-05
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-11-12 10:22:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18009128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Lestrade's fox features capture Mycroft's attention.





	Not a Fetish

The dark fur on Lestrade's ears looks impossibly soft. Mycroft wonders how many people have been allowed to touch them in the last decades. All kinds of people probably, when he was a child, as a gesture of comfort or affection, as a greeting. Family and friends, doctors and teachers, even strangers. A touch of that kind on an adult Lestrade, however, can hardly escape its air of disrespect.

"If you could possibly indulge your hybrid fetish on your own time."

Sherlock's lazy drawl makes every gaze in the room turn in his direction. Mycroft maintains his mask of blank boredom and doesn't reply. John's face broadcasts every single thought going through his mind as usual. Lestrade rolls his eyes.

"You want the case or not?" Lestrade waves the file in front of Sherlock's face. "No? Fine. I'll be off then."

"No, wait. Give it here."

A minor scuffle ensues as Lestrade warns Sherlock to work _with_ them instead of _around_ them, while trying to hold the folder out of reach of his brother's grasping clutches.

It only takes moments, after the inspector has taken his leave, to ascertain that Sherlock has made no progress whatsoever on the little problem Mycroft gave him ten days ago. To Sherlock and John's obvious relief, Mycroft declines to stay for tea.

He finds Lestrade still standing in front of 221B, simultaneously humming into his mobile phone and sucking on a cigarette with tangible greed. The long coat hides his tail. Not even a hint of the white tip, which always reminds Mycroft of Mount Sanford and kid gloves, is visible. He waits for the end of the call, content to watch the small movements of Lestrade's ears catching the sounds of the city around him.

When the phone slides back into the secretive coat, Mycroft steps close. "Inspector. A word, if I may. I assure you, whatever my brother might insinuate—"

"I know that was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Don't worry about it." 

Lestrade gives him a friendly pat on the back, which seems to reach through all the layers of fabric down to Mycroft's skin.

"Here's my ride."

A car with Sergeant Donovan in the driver's seat stops at the kerb.

"Have a good day, Mycroft."

Mycroft, unsatisfied with Lestrade's easy presumption of innocence, is left behind as the car vanishes in heavy London traffic.

* * *

Mycroft pulls off the bright blue latex gloves with a scowl. Even after a thorough washing of his hands, he can still feel them on his skin. Truly, he despises legwork above all else.

The elevators in the surgical wing are still blocked by a couple of technicians, which forces him to resort to the stairs once more. By the time he reaches the ground floor, his pulse is uncomfortably elevated, but before he can mop his undoubtedly shiny forehead, he almost runs into DI Lestrade.

"Mycroft. Hello. Didn't expect to see you here."

It has been weeks since their last encounter. The fine weather has vanquished Lestrade's long winter coat. Unfortunately, the spring coat isn't any shorter.

"I hope you're not feeling poorly."

"Oh, no. I'm fine. Visiting a mate. Appendicitis. You?"

"The same. Something unmentionable involving the bowels."

Mycroft's effort earns him a smile. They spend the next minutes talking about the weather, traffic, and Sherlock. Lestrade wrinkles his nose now and then. The hospital's odours must be even less pleasant for him.

"Well, I'm not going to say I hate hospitals, because everyone hates hospitals. At least I don't have to stay here." He gestures at the stairs. "I should probably—"

"There is something I'd like to tell you."

"Okay. Right here?"

"We're alone for the moment, so I see no reason to delay. It concerns our last meeting and what my brother said about me in his usual style of a bull in a china shop."

"I know Sherlock was just trying to rile you up, which he does pretty much every time you two are in the same room. Everyone who has ever met the both of you is aware of that." 

"Please let me finish." Now that he has the opportunity to explain, Mycroft is not entirely sure where to begin, or – more importantly still – where to stop. He takes a deep breath. "It is true that I have been watching you, I won't deny it. Nevertheless, my brother has either misinterpreted or wilfully misrepresented my gaze. I—"

"My bet's on option two."

Mycroft smiles. "Yes, quite. In any case, my point is that I don't admire you because of or in spite of your characteristics. I admire what belongs to you, because it belongs to you. That is to say, I'm not specifically drawn to hybrids in general or foxes in particular. It's not a fetish, or even a preference, it's, well, you."

There's a moment of silence as Lestrade's eyebrows climb higher on his forehead, but then a grin follows.

"So, you wanna take me out? Great. I like French cuisine and plenty of wine to wash it down with. I'm sure your assistant can coordinate our schedules. See ya, Mycroft."

Lestrade is up the stairs, before Mycroft can say anything else. Now that he thinks about it, he realises that Lestrade often leaves him standing after a rather brusque goodbye.

* * *

It takes five dinners and two lunches, before Greg asks him in for a nightcap. They both keep their clothes on and Mycroft is not allowed to touch, but their activities reduce him to a slightly confused, boneless lump on Greg's couch regardless. If he's honest, it's not entirely different from some of his previous romantic encounters.

It takes another dinner and a visit to the London Transport Museum to be granted a kiss. Thirty-seven minutes after their first kiss, Mycroft is back on Greg's couch. His arms and lap are full of Greg. This time his hands may wander where they please, though Mycroft can barely decide where to start. He already hopes that stopping has left this year's agenda entirely.

Now and then, the weight of Greg's tail settles on his legs. He notices every flick. Removing Greg's shirt reveals the man underneath. Mycroft's hands glide from smooth shoulders to the thickening fur at his waist, fingers eager to trace the patterns of light and dark.

Greg's hold on his jaw tightens without warning. Mycroft is rather embarrassed about the amount of time it takes for his brain to re-engage.

"There are rules."

"Oh?"

"Yes, and I need you to listen carefully." He waits for Mycroft's assent, before continuing. "No recordings whatsoever. No collars or leashes. No restraints whatsoever. That includes your hands. No cages, no masks, no costumes. No roleplay. No shaving. Absolutely no chickens in any capacity. I'm not going to pee on you. I'm not going to scratch or bite you bloody. Do not pull on my tail or my ears. Don't hold on to them, even in the heat of the moment. I don't like rough shit. If you try to hurt me, I will hurt you back, and you're not gonna like it. If I ever see you in a red coat, we're through. Are we clear?"

The words sound as though they have been said a thousand times. Mycroft stumbles his way through an answer, which can be summed up as yes to anything and everything. It must be enough, because afterwards Greg takes him to bed and loves him so thoroughly that it leaves him speechless.

There is possessiveness in the way Greg later pushes himself into Mycroft's touch like a spoilt cat demanding its rightful attention, whenever he is about to stop stroking his hair and ears. They're even softer than he imagined.

"Will you stop running away from me now?" Mycroft asks idly.

Greg makes an inquisitive noise.

"I've noticed that your goodbyes tend to be quite abrupt. For a while I was under the impression that you could hardly stand to be in my presence."

Greg slowly disentangles himself from their embrace and sits up. "No, that was mostly just me stopping myself from doing something stupid."

"Stupid in what way?"

Greg grimaces. "Like rubbing my face against your suit in public or blurting out something silly like 'I really fancy you. Do you like me back?' You don't exactly wear your heart on your sleeve."

"Interesting."

"Oh, stop being so smug. It's beneath you."

"My irresistible allure is not the only reason though, is it?"

Greg's ears flatten and he looks away. "Sorry."

Mycroft pulls him back into his arms. "It's all right," he murmurs. "I don't mind. It's all good."

Greg kisses him, hotly, deeply. Mycroft is careful in putting his weight on the man under him, but Greg pulls him closer still. They rut together without precision or finesse. The way Greg reacts as Mycroft strokes his furry thighs against the grain will still haunt him days later. The way Greg calls his name for the first time when he comes will stay with him for the rest of his life.

By and by, it's decided, mostly by Greg, that he will stay for dinner and for the night. Mycroft sees no reason to object just for the sake of it. Greg mostly keeps him in his bed and out of his clothes.

Mycroft can't recall the last time he was as physically close to someone in a nonsexual way. Surely, the amount of touch and contact he receives within a few hours easily surpasses his usual quota of the last five years combined.

The day following their first night together, Mycroft requests the necessary paperwork from his assistant. Establishing a private life in his line of work is never easy. Luckily, for a man in his unique position, it is only a formality. There is no doubt, no hesitation, when he fills in page after intrusive page a fortnight later.

When their relationship becomes work official, the smart people feign indifference. The less smart people offer either leering congratulations or barely concealed distaste. Mycroft answers the openly voiced disgust of the only stupid man with an admittedly unhealthy dose of pettiness. But, really, people who can't keep their mouth shut have no place in his field.

* * *

Greg's eyes light up the first time he sees the inside of Mycroft's house. It's full of nooks and crannies, corners and angles, whereas Greg's flat consists of spacious squares.

Their first mornings together turn into games of hide and seek. Mycroft wakes up in an empty bed and, after a leisurely search for his wayward guest or host, depending on the day, finds Greg with his limbs between the banisters of his stair railing, behind the large potted plant on his balcony, sitting on kitchen counters or between attic wardrobes. Sometimes Mycroft can stay exactly where he is, because Greg is lying under the bed. Mycroft will hold his hand gladly, even when it's dusty.

As time goes by, Greg worms his way into all the places Mycroft never believed could accommodate another human being. It's not only the hollows of his house and body that fill up with Greg, his mind and his heart expand in a way that Mycroft thought impossible. Before Greg, there was only ever Sherlock in everything he did and wished for. Now they share his love equally.

There's a niche in the bathroom, next to the sink and across from the bathtub. At first, Mycroft refused to cramp the room with unnecessary furniture or – Heaven forbid – decorative items. It remained a glaring eyesore until he fit in a hamper he rarely uses, and moved on.

After a disastrous first attempt of taking a bath together – Greg doesn't do well with sitting still in hot water – a new routine emerges. Mycroft will lounge in the tub as Greg keeps him company, sitting on the hamper with his knees drawn up and his shoulders crammed in between two pieces of wall.

Sometimes Greg will sit there naked with a cigarette in one corner of his mouth, pleasuring himself slowly, his half-lidded eyes focussed on Mycroft, as Mycroft does the same in the tub. In his mind palace, Mycroft guards those memories more jealously than state secrets.

One work-related stay in a Viennese hotel gives him the idea of getting an armchair for the bathroom. Something comfortable but exquisite for Greg to sit in. He spends the time between meetings researching styles and fabrics, and imagines the different colours and materials against Greg's skin and fur. Luckily, he comes to his senses before broaching the topic at home. He orders a sturdier hamper and a cushion for the lid instead.

While it's still too early to confess his undying love, Mycroft takes Greg away from London for a weekend in the country. Following a drunken disclosure and much embarrassment the next morning, Mycroft has no scruples to use the means ready at his fingertips. The remote property of a distant relative proves ideal for his own special belated Easter egg hunt.

The eggs are raw and the hiding places fitting for a man of Greg's intelligence and skill. Greg's evident joy and gratitude warm Mycroft to the bone. Later, as he lies bedded on moss and pine needles, Mycroft forgets to worry about stains on his clothes or insects potentially making a home on or under his skin. The warm body riding him, moving with him, feels like a prayer to something ancient and primal. Only when they are back at the house, where Greg washes the dirt from his bare knees, does he blush to the tips of his ears.

Greg's diet changes gradually. Within a year, his consume of raw food, meat and fish included, increases significantly. Mycroft doesn't say a word, but adjusts their food orders, shopping habits and restaurant visits accordingly.

Mycroft's own relationship to eating shifts into something Greg insists is healthier. It's rather difficult to neglect himself deliberately or accidentally when there is someone so insistent on keeping him alive in the most essential sense of the word.

When Greg steps between Mycroft and a disgruntled, knife-wielding former employee on a snowy December night, Mycroft remains remarkably calm. It's days later, at the sight of a shaven, stitched up fox ear illuminated by their Christmas tree that his rage boils over. The following fight about which one of them is technically a civilian and should seek shelter behind the other explodes into something ugly. They cancel all their Christmas plans and spend the holidays in a Finnish glass igloo under the northern lights to make up.

After the knife incident, his mother's smiles turn from forced to genuine. Greg, baffling everyone involved, refuses to see her again. At first, Mycroft deludes himself into believing that this reaction has more to do with work-related stress than anything his mother has actually done. He is quickly disabused of such notions, when Greg, with one notable exception, doesn't relent for the following eight years. Having spent three miserable Christmases at his parents' house, Mycroft decides enough is enough, and awards his husband the lion's share of his holiday free time, almost giddily choosing pleasure over duty for once.

Rosie spends the first years of her life convinced that anything remotely fox-shaped is Greg. To keep the peace, everyone adheres to the unspoken agreement that her first word was most definitely _Dada_. To keep the peace some eleven or twelve years later, when Rosie is expelled from her school for an act of decidedly fox-shaped vandalism, everyone agrees that, in times of great political apathy, they're really quite lucky to have a civic-minded teenager on their hands.

When Greg, defying all naysayers, retires at sixty in excellent physical and mental shape, Mycroft becomes antsy. At first, he thinks it's worrying about his husband that keeps him up at night. How will a man of action cope with peace and quiet after decades in the service? But Greg is perfectly fine as he fills his days with new activities and more people.

It takes a throwaway remark, spoken between baked beans and broadsheet papers on a Sunday morning, to make him understand. The words _I'd like to travel more_ and _You should join me_ bring sudden clarity. He's not worried about Greg, he fears for himself. That he won't be leaving his office on his own two feet when the time comes. He starts planning his retirement immediately.

No one quite believes him for the next eighteen months. Less than a year before his departure, his office descends into panic. Mycroft gains and loses sixteen pounds in quick succession, and sheds an additional twelve percent of his already dwindling hair.

Roughly two and a half years after Greg's last day at work, Mycroft celebrates his own. Royalty is present at the evening do.

For the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes feels like he has done enough. Perhaps it's the champagne talking, but he believes he owes it all to a pair of impossibly soft silver fox ears.


End file.
